


angel | d.d.

by propertyofdindjarin



Series: din djarin drabbles+ [8]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Multi, No Gender Pronouns, Third-person, basically 4k of angst, no y/n
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:15:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27086158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/propertyofdindjarin/pseuds/propertyofdindjarin
Summary: “Because Din is an angel, not a demon, and that is a fact.”
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader
Series: din djarin drabbles+ [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785928
Comments: 4
Kudos: 51





	angel | d.d.

**Author's Note:**

> [link to tumblr post](https://propertyofdindjarin.tumblr.com/post/631522154347921408/angel-dd-angel-din-djarinrequest-nonote)

It is a fact that you are an angel. 

His helmet is off, allowing you to hear his true voice and see his face for the first time in thirty-six hours. Your husband’s face is worn; his forehead creased with stress and dry flakes of blood are peeling all around his hairline. The chase has hit him hard, probably harder than it had hit you. You knew he did most of the work when it came to catching the bounty. 

Din had practically thrown the precious beskar down on the table as soon as he entered the Razor Crest again. The man had grown to hate wearing the helmet. At this point, he wasn’t even able to trick himself into wearing it unless it was absolutely necessary. 

He didn’t love his helmet. He didn’t even like it. How could he? 

Not when wearing it meant that he was heading into a situation that could potentially harm you and his adopted son. Not when the helmet meant chipping the beskar on his body that is so kriffing rare and expensive or having to battle bounties that would leave him worn out for hours upon hours. Not when putting it on meant having to leave the only two people in the world that make him feel like he’s home. 

Not when taking it off meant seeing your face, how his _cyare_ _riduur’s_ [beloved spouse’s] face would light up and shower him with a thousand kisses, each one showing how much they loved him. Not when you’d stare directly into his eyes and run your fingers through the hair that’s probably disgusting and matted with sweat and blood. Not when you give him the Keldabe Kiss afterward and grab his hand to lead him to the Child. Not when he feels so warm and safe and nice inside when you’re with him. 

His mind had grown used to associating negative feelings with putting on the helmet and positive ones with taking it off. Soon, he’d have to put it on again. But he didn’t think that it would be as bad, knowing that it was to see his son’s face again. 

Din’s mind swirled, returning to the question of who the Child would hug first. He had enough of diving down into such a negative headspace. You weren’t looking at his face right now, but he knew that you were worried about him. It was blatant by your act of trying to cheer him up. You had brought the topic up right after he launched the ‘Crest out of hyperspace and into Sorgan’s vibrant atmosphere, just a few minutes after the helmet was taken off and he’d entered that downward spiral.

The womp rat had formed a habit of running full speed towards people that left his sight for more than five minutes at a time, then hugging them. Well, not all people. It was more like just you and Din. 

You had said that the baby would go straight to him and he had said the opposite. Din knew that you would lose the game. The Child loved you immensely. 

And more often than you, it was Din who left. So he had a stronger bond with you, and it would be you that the baby would go to first. 

The Child had been left in Cara’s care while the two of you were gone. And while her version of “caring” might’ve been questionable, both you and Din had no doubt that he’d be safe. An ex-shock trooper-turned-mercenary has got to be a good babysitter, right? At least, that’s what you tried convincing yourselves. 

Within the past week or so that had gone by, Din knew that you found yourself missing the little foundling much more than you enjoyed the thrill of helping him catch a bounty. 

You originally tried telling yourself that it would be nice to live in a different environment for once; a fast-paced adventure where one wrong move either means death or Din refusing to take you anywhere else ever again. It seemed better than a place where you were half-dying from boredom, stopping the Child from choking on frog legs, and dealing with his Force-tantrums when he was told not to do something. 

You were wrong. 

Kriff, barely even five days in and you were greatly missing a green alien that you’d only known for a short amount of time. But you wouldn’t have it any other way—just like how you wouldn’t trade your marriage to Din Djarin for anything else. You were perfectly content with the small clan that you, Din, and the baby made up. This trip just made it more clear. 

Din thought that the Child developed a form of withdrawal whenever someone left him, like he had a fear of being left alone. It broke his heart seeing how sad the foundling got when he left the ‘Crest—whether it was for days at a time, tracking bounties, or only for an hour or two on a supply run—and even more so because it was the two of you that had left him this time. Usually, either Din would be with him while you weren’t, or you were with him and Din wasn’t. 

Din washed those thoughts away. 

“You know he’s going to come to you first, _riduur_ [spouse],” he says.

His voice is teasing but raspy, his energy having dipped after the adrenaline from the chase had died down. It sounds a bit forced, especially since he’s still thinking about what it might feel like to let go of the helmet forever and whether he’s a good father or not, and the undertone leaves an awkward feeling in the air. 

A sigh escapes your mouth. 

“Din,” you say, and hug him from behind. You’re spreading kisses all throughout his back and all he can think about is that you are perfect and soft and everything that he never even dreamed about but got anyway.

Your answer is soft. Your hug is soft. Your kisses are soft. Maker, everything you do makes him feel like he’s in the heaven that he doesn’t think he deserves. 

He’s lied and killed and cheated, and you know that. He’s rough and dangerous and everything you are not. Yet you are still here, and it is by choice. You love him, and he still doesn’t know why you proposed to him. Why you ever thought that he could be worthy of the strange, indescribable emotions that you flood his heart with, the ones that confuse him and twist his mind all sorts of ways to figure out. 

Din always wondered how someone as a whole could be so kriffing soft. But stars, there was no other way to describe it. Your words were like the huge, fluffy clouds on Naboo; comforting and powerful and gentle, all at the same time. Your affection makes him feel like he’s on top of those clouds. You remind him of the vague memories he has of his biological mother and father, the fuzzy faces that sing lullabies to him while he drifts away in his dreams.

He knows that he has failed to sound playful. It was an accusation when he said that the Child would hug you first. He believes it to be true and some ugly part of him is jealous of the bond that the two of you share. 

But you’ve said his name, and you’re telling him that you love him, and when he looks into your eyes he believes you. 

“I love you,” you repeat. “I love you so much, Din, and our baby loves you even more than I do, which I thought was impossible, but it isn’t. Do you know how many coos for Din come out of that mouth? Seventy-five percent of his tantrums occur because you’re not there, _ner riduur_ [my spouse].” 

The last two sentences are accompanied with a laugh. It’s quite visible that your husband doubts the veracity behind them, but you pair it with a kiss that’s equal parts breathtaking, intimate in its own inexplicable way, and chock full of passion, and Din believes you a little more than he did before. 

The two of you stay where you are for what seems like hours, standing against the wall next to the carbonite prison and holding each other like puzzle pieces dangling off the edge of a table. Eventually, you tighten the hug even more than he thought was possible, and whisper if he’s ready to see the baby. 

A sinking feeling erupts in Din’s stomach as he asks himself if he’s a terrible parent for forgetting about the foundling that he took under his wing. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” you say, reading his mind. “It’s okay. The baby is safe with Cara and just because we spent a little longer getting to him because of a well-needed hug does not mean that we are horrible people.”

Din begins to say that it’s only him who is the horrible one, but you silence him with another kiss. He forgets what he was about to protest. 

The atmosphere swiftly changes, and Din is sure that a flush is creeping up his neck and the tips of his ears, even though his dark skin tone doesn’t usually yield to much color. He doesn’t trust his voice, so he nods and walks over to the table to grab his helmet. He puts it on, walks back to collect your arm, which links itself with his right arm. 

Footsteps are ringing throughout the narrow expanse of the ‘Crest as the two of you reach the saloon. Din swears that he could star in a rom-com holoshow with all of the dramatic sound effects that seem to be erupting. He flicks the switch that opens the saloon door and turns to you. 

“ _Cyar’ika_ [darling],” Din says, helmet making his voice descend three octaves lower. It’s said simply to grab your attention, to tell you that you’re about to leave. In this context, it was not said as a form of endearment, but butterflies still swell in your stomach. Stars, only Din could pull off those “cyar’ika”s of his under a voice modifier.

You obnoxiously echo the word, “ _Cyar’ika_ [darling],” hoping to keep Din’s mind away from the thoughts that you knew were swirling in his mind just seconds earlier. Your voice is exaggerated to sound much deeper than it is, and it's such a lower range that your voice cracks halfway through the word. 

You repeat it again and attach it to a string of Mando’a that you’re not even sure makes sense. Turning up the theatrics, you wave your hands in the air for absolutely no reason at all. 

“ _Cyar’ika, ni kar’tayl gar darasuum, ner mesh’la cyar’ika_ [darling, I love you, my beautiful sweetheart].”

You have butchered the pronunciation and know it, laughing all the while. 

Din is frozen. He hadn’t heard anyone other than him speak in his native tongue for a long time. Even though you’d begun to pick up Mando’a and would repeat certain words back to him, like _cyar’ika_ or _mesh’la_ , he didn’t think that you’d string them together. Even if it was said sarcastically, he knew that you meant it. 

A moment of silence passes. You think you’ve offended him, but Din finds that he’s able to use his words again.

“I do not sound like that.” His voice is a deep baritone, one that you would not have been able to replicate, even if you tried your hardest to. There’s a hint of a childish whine under that sentence, a lingering smile of some sort. You can tell from his tone that he isn’t offended at all. He sounds more like he’s holding back a laugh. You’ve realized that you have very much messed up the Mando’a. Kriff, was your pronunciation that bad? It probably was. 

“ _Mesh’la_ [beautiful],” he adds in a corrective tone. 

“ _Mesh’la_ [beautiful],” you repeat. 

“Good.”

Din understands that you are trying your hardest to change the mood, to uplift his spirits. He knows that you can see how much he is hurting inside, how he is fighting a vicious war with himself. Can you tell that he is deliberating whether or not to put down the one thing that has remained a constant throughout most of his life? Can you tell that he doubts his lifestyle every day?

You gently say, “You know he’s going to come to you first.” 

After that run of humiliating yourself in front of Din to get him out of that slump, you didn’t want him to go back. No, even if it meant that you’d spend most of your life trying to learn a foreign language and messing all of the words up.

To Din Djarin, you are perfect. 

And you are trying to help him, even though he is cracked and worn and pushes to get to the next day so he can see you again. But he still doesn’t understand why you chose him, and he doesn’t think he ever will. 

Despite his brokenness, you love him unconditionally; despite his past failures and mistakes and wrongdoings you love him passionately, confidently, so intimately in a way no words can describe. Despite every little chip and flaw of his, you manage to find it within yourself to see the good in him because, in the end, your love for him alone makes it impossible for you to see him as anything less than perfect. You’ve been trying to help him realize his importance, that he is worth every little conflict that you have to push through. 

Whether it’s making sure that he isn’t doubting himself or telling him that you love him. Whether it is holding him at half-past two when the nightmares come to grab him and pretending to be asleep when he's calmed down or singing lullabies to the foundling that he has adopted. Whether it is reminding him that he needs to sleep and eat, or saving your cut from the bounties and spending it on useless gifts that you give to him. Whether it’s dancing around the Razor Crest to the small radio that you’d bought or well-needed hugs that take him by surprise.

It doesn’t matter whether it’s something he needs or didn’t realize he needed, because you are always there for him. You, who makes Din feel so soft and safe and sated inside, thinks that he is very important; that he is the person who makes you soft and safe and sated inside. 

To you, Din Djarin is perfect.

Maker, you can practically see the smile breaking out behind that beskar of his. 

“Not _mesh’la_ [beautiful], darling,” Din says, saying the word like how you had said it. “It’s _mesh’la_ [beautiful].”

You think he sounds the exact same. 

It’s a simple word, but it sounds too much like the exasperated teachers you’d grown up with when you had gone to school. How they would tell you that what you’re doing is wrong, then do exactly what you were trying to do and call it right. 

You can’t help but let a laugh out, and the scoff that rings out from the modulator of your husband’s helmet tells you that he knows what you’re thinking about. He sighs again, and you shake your head. 

Your giggling has stopped, but your grin hasn’t faded away just yet. 

“Come,” he says. He’s wrapped his right arm around your shoulders so that you’re even closer to him than before. 

“I love you,” you reply, just as you walk outside. 

You take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the glade that Din had landed the ‘Crest on. 

The world around you is a vivid shade of green. The air smells fresh and crisp in a way that you didn’t think was possible. Sorgan was such a contrast to the dull, sandy, and scorching hot area you’d previously been on. 

Carasynthia Dune is already outside the little hovel she calls home. You can already see a stain of some sort on the Child’s clothing. Perhaps she hasn’t done such a good job at the aforementioned “caring,” but you can see that your little baby is safe and sound. It’s alright. 

Din smiles. He doesn’t know if it’s a delayed reaction to your words or seeing the Child again. He decides that it’s a mixture of both. If he hadn’t had the helmet on, his teeth would have been as radiant as the Sorgan sun. 

You try wriggling out of Din’s embrace to walk forward, but a sudden leather-clad hand gently pushes against your shoulder. Confused, you look back up to him. You gaze at him expectedly, all while some birds are cawing at the tips of the trees that surround this area. 

“What?”

“I love you too,” Din replies.

“Pssh.” The answer is a little late, but there’s the heaviness of veracity attached to it. So, you accept it and move on. You hold your hand out so Din can grasp it, and the two of you walk forward. Stars, you can feel the warmth from his fingers through the glove. Albeit, the cool breeze drifting through the afternoon sunshine might have to do with it.

As expected, once the Child has seen the shape of his parents, he immediately starts wriggling out of Cara’s grasps. You hear the curses spewing from the Alderaanian even from a distance. You wince, watching her snap at the baby to stop moving. 

Din grumbles. “Kriff. Why did we decide to leave the kid here again?” 

The helmet turns down and he looks at you, not wanting to see how brashly the mercenary is handling the baby.

“She was the only one available that we could trust,” you say with a shrug. It’s said to convince Din, but you as well. 

By the time you and Din are around ten meters away, Cara has set the Child onto the ground and he begins to run towards you. It’s more of a waddle, but the sight is cute and you let out a sigh of ease. No visible wounds. A relatively happy face. The anxiety that you didn’t know you even had has released. Your shoulders don’t ache as much anymore, and your back is much less taut. 

Both you and Din are resolving not to leave him for such an extended period of time again. But Din knows that’s impossible unless he does what his mind has been debating against. Shaking his head, he tugs on your hand again and signals you to walk a bit faster. He won’t let those thoughts take over a memory that he’ll have to look back on in the future. 

His hands are shaking, though. His heart is racing even faster. 

Even on his short, stubby legs, the Child is continuing to run at full speed. His pace is around how fast a children's’ automatic toy car would run, but his stamina is unnerving nonetheless. Has he missed you this much?

Din’s wondering if that’s what it feels like to be a parent—to know that they’re so precious to you that you’d risk your life for them without a second thought—and is so lost in thought that he doesn’t notice how close the Child has gotten. It’s only when you let go of his hand and the loss of your warmth ensues that he finds out that the event is moving a lot quicker than he wanted it to.

You sink down to your knees so that the height difference between you and your baby isn’t so much anymore. 

Din takes a step back. 

Kriff, can he even do this? His hands are shaking, and it isn’t a life-or-death type of situation for Maker’s sake. The armor feels all of a sudden way too hot, and he’s only calming down because you call out, “Hey.”

It was not directed towards him and not even much more than a whisper, for that was all your mouth could afford to say at the moment. The rest of your energy was focused on the realization that you loved your little green baby to an extent that you never even knew was possible. Din didn’t judge. He couldn’t say anything at all. At least you could bring yourself to do it. 

Maker, Din wanted to call out, too.

He wanted to tell the Child how much he loved and missed him; missed that green skin, those wide eyes, that wide smile, those incessant giggles of his. The Child’s skin is still the shade that Din remembered. Those big, glassy eyes are still the same and the Child seems happy as he slowly makes his way over to you and him. 

Or maybe just you. 

But Din is unable to move ahead, so he just takes another step backward. It’s like he believes that distancing himself from the situation will somehow make it all better. Logically, it makes it worse, as the Child might hug you first since you’re closer. 

Din hears you say, “We missed you so much, baby,” but it barely registers in his mind. He knows it’s not for him, anyway. 

All he can focus on is how the Child’s eyes go directly to him first. Well, his gaze first travels to a pink butterfly that had fluttered next to the little one’s ear, but it was him right after that. The flowers and grass beneath him have managed to tickle him through the thick material of his trousers. The Child—with the large, black eyeballs that are staring into his soul—is looking straight at him. 

And not only did he choose to look at Din first, but he smiled when he made eye contact. Kriff, the Maker probably didn’t even know how the foundling did it. Whenever the Child looked at him, it was always straight in the eye. Most missed by a few centimeters, others by an inch or two. But not his son. Not the baby. 

The Child’s ears poke up and the giggles that Din can hear from his mouth give way to his mind drowning itself in watching playbacks of that moment. He has to remind himself to get out of watching a scene that’s happening in his mind. Why return to memories of the soft glow of the sun, grass tickling your ankles, slightly cool breeze, and the intense feeling of something inexplicably family-like when you can enjoy it while it’s happening? 

Din doesn’t move, though. He’s still enthralled by what’s happening. It’s like he can’t even control his body to move even if he wanted it to.

He watches as you hold your arms out, worried that all the momentum the Child is creating will trip him when he stops running. Surprisingly, the foundling slows down after he’s a meter away and fully stops at half a meter away from you. 

You drop your arms and share a look of confusion with Din. He shrugs. It’s all he can do at the moment. His helmet glints underneath the glow of the sun, which is dimmer than usual due to the hazy sky blocking some of its rays. Usually, the reflection is blinding, as it was back in the Dune Sea. Looking back, you see that the Child is now walking straight ahead. 

“Come to your _buirs_ [parents], baby.” 

Din watches you, intrigued not only by your startlingly easy addition of Mando’a, but also by your parental instincts. You encourage the baby to come closer with a flick of your wrist. 

The foundling finally breaks eye contact with Din. His eyes travel down from Din’s tall stature to your current position on the ground. You were kneeling on the grass and staining your knees with dirt, but you didn’t seem to care. A smile crept in without Din even realizing it. He blinked and reassessed the situation.

He was finding that he was stuck in a pattern. One where he continued mentally yelling at himself to stop acting like a bystander and wake up.

But no matter how many times he tries, he can’t bring himself to stop watching everything unfold. He wants to be proactive; to make the baby come to him by walking forward or talking to him. But he doesn’t seem to be able to do that. Not when his fears of not being enough are right there in front of him. Not when the Child might defy what you had been reassuring him throughout the entire trip to Sorgan, proving him right. 

And this was the one time he didn’t want to be correct.

A slew of random baby talk escaped the Child’s thin lips as he reached out with his left arm. It was clear that he was trying to touch someone. Din’s muscles cramped. His mouth dried up as if he was back in the Dune Sea on Tatooine. His legs were aching from just standing within this forest for a few minutes. 

He was a warrior. A bounty hunter. One who faces danger all the time. He’s taken more lives, done more unspeakable things, and seen more than anyone could or would ever have to in ten lifetimes, yet the mere thought of not being enough terrified him to the very core. 

He’s deathly afraid of it. 

“Din,” you find yourself saying. 

His helmet weighs too much and his shoulders are sinking, but Din forces himself to look at you. His eyes flit over your features and your gaze visibly softens, then firms up some more. 

“Din,” you repeat. 

You turn to look at your husband and stand up. Your loose-fit trousers are rippling from the wind and your hair is absolutely unruly right now and Din’s heart is racing for absolutely no reason at all. It could be because of the way he swears that you’re staring into his soul right now. 

It’s an uncomfortable feeling, one where he’s sure that all of his insecurities and deepest, darkest, ugliest truths have been displayed for you to jab at with your words. Din knows that you know about his mental state. He hasn’t truly hidden it for all of this time, but it’s always been tucked away into the shadows. 

Din had always wondered if you’ve heard the night terrors that still continue to plague him. He had always thought that he managed to wake up before you had the chance to. But maybe he was wrong about that. 

Maybe he was wrong about everything that he’s said and hasn’t said. It doesn’t matter though. Either way, Din Djarin would rather be anywhere but here. The impending weight of who the Child is going to choose doesn’t make anything any better. Din doesn’t know if his mental state right now would be able to handle what he thinks is going to happen. 

The pity radiating off of you makes the situation a million times worse than it already is. His fingers are folding themselves into a tight fist before he can compose himself, his feet taking him half a meter away from you. 

Maybe the notorious Mandalorian is a coward. 

“Din, come here.”

You make a small gesture toward yourself. When he doesn’t move, something inside of you cracks. You can feel the ripples from it edge deeper and deeper into your heart until you’re sure that glass has actually pierced it. How could Din ever think that you don’t think of him as your galaxy? That you don’t see how indescribably amazing he truly is?

“Stop looking at me like that,” Din whispers. The modulator cracks it up and the world around you seems to freeze. The birds stop singing and the trees stop swaying and everything seems to be oh so wrong.

Sometimes you don’t understand why you ever thought that you could handle the pain of being with someone who hates themself, of having to remind them time and time again that they’re worth everything they don’t think they are. You still don’t really understand it. Why you’re letting pressure build up inside of you for so long and at such a high intensity that it’s cracking up your heart from the inside. 

You’ve gotten addicted to him and it’s far too late to back out now that you’re this emotionally invested in this man’s wellbeing. You love him and that’s also an irreversible, irrevocable thing.

“I don’t know how else to look at you.”

You think that Din sees himself as bantha shit. It’s true, really. He does hate himself. But when it comes to whether he’s right about that or not, he’s wrong and always will be wrong. You’re always right when it comes to these things. Whether it’s about if Din Djarin deserves to marry you or if the Child loves him, you are always right. He deserves everything, and if anything, you don’t think you deserve him. So when it comes down to it, of course, he deserves to marry you. 

So you’re right when it comes to your marriage and will be right when it comes to the Child. 

Because Din is an **angel** , not a demon, and that is a fact.

**Author's Note:**

> please drop a Kudos or a comment if you liked this :)


End file.
